A Smile as Sweet as Poison Read online

  She donned it gingerly, mindful of the lacy detailing. Fortunately for her, it fastened in the front, laces threaded through the fabric cinching up under the bust. Hazel had first noticed the babydoll when she’d been out blowing her hard-earned cash with Sadie. She’d gone back later, alone, to buy it.

  Working up the nerve to put it on for the boys was a whole other affair.

  With a deep breath, Hazel seized the doorknob and pulled the door open. Her feet were bare on the hardwood boards. She fought the shiver that threatened to creep up her calves and settle deep into her bones.

  Ward’s vociferous rants gave him away before Hazel had rounded the corner. She didn’t need to search for the source. Ward and Dylan were right by the kitchen island, utterly oblivious.

  “It’s like I’m talking to a wall!” Ward waved his tumbler into a wide arc. “They don’t seem to understand—or want to understand—that if we lose this contract, we can kiss our South American securities goodbye. It’ll be dominoes after that. We’re already being muscled out of China—”

  Hazel cleared her throat emphatically.

  Dylan turned first, the corner of his lips tugged into a smile. Beside him, Ward had yet to close his mouth. “You were saying?” Dylan prompted.

  “I… Yeah.”

  Beneath their heated stares, Hazel fought the urge to fold her arms over her chest. She wasn’t going to be that girl—she wasn’t going to dress up and tease them with the full knowledge of what she was doing, before backing down, too cowardly to finish what she’d started.

  “Welcome home,” she told Ward, letting her own eyes roam over the tailored lines of his immaculate suit. “Sir.”

  She knew she didn’t imagine Ward’s sharp inhale, or Dylan clenching his fingers around the decanter.

  “Join us,” Dylan entreated.

  Although it was gently spoken, Hazel knew it was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Not while she wore the collar. She stepped forward with soundless steps, enjoying the way the babydoll brushed and slid against her bare legs. The fabric stopped at just above mid-thigh, enough to look sexy without being indecent. The see-through material took care of that.

  Ward seemed to agree. He also seemed to have trouble tearing his gaze away from her modest cleavage.

  “What’s for dinner?” Hazel asked breezily. She had expected to find Dylan puttering around the stove. It was an interest of his—the pair of them owned at least as many hardcover cookbooks as they did mystery paperbacks. But the kitchen was a sleek and clean as ever. Not a chopping board was out of place.

  “I called for sushi,” Dylan reported.

  “Oh.”

  He arched his eyebrows, registering her note of surprise. “You wanted something else?” This, too, was a little rough, a little like an order, but Hazel knew Dylan wouldn’t leverage his role in the bedroom as a means to control her life outside it.

  Or, at least, he hadn’t done that yet. The pendulum could always swing the other way.

  Hazel shook her head, banishing the shiver of unease. “So… How was work?”

  “Good,” Ward replied.

  “Really?” Dylan’s lips twitched.

  Aggravation dispensed with, Ward shrugged. “I was just venting. Don’t take me so seriously.”

  “I’d never dream of it.”

  “Floor’s a little cold,” Hazel said into the ensuing lull, loath to cut through the fond look Dylan and Ward shared. “Is it okay if I—”

  “Here.” Ward pushed his tumbler into her hands. Whiskey swirled at the bottom and clung to his breath. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

  Her heart sank a little. It was one of Dylan’s few rules—no drinking before a scene—and yet here Ward was, sampling oak-barrel bourbon on an empty stomach. She let him steer her from the kitchen table but didn’t otherwise follow his lead. The chill would go away on its own.

  “How was work?” Ward wanted to know. He’d settled a palm at Hazel’s waist as they covered the breadth of distance between kitchen and living room, but slid it down to give her ass a quick pinch just before she sat.

  “Oh, good. You know.” Hazel shrugged.

  “And Sadie?”

  The S-word. Collar or no collar, Hazel shot him a glare. “Good, too.”

  It was impossible to stay mad at Ward, particularly when he joined her on the couch, his thigh warm even through the fabric of his soft wool pant leg. He reclaimed his glass when she offered it and drained it in a single gulp.

  “No manners.” Dylan sighed. He looked good with shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top two buttons of his collar roguishly open. It marked a contrast from the put-together, professional financial analyst he played by day—the same one who had once ventured into Hazel’s workplace and made eyes at her over coffee.

  Back then, she’d been tempted to upend her coffee pot into his lap. Now it was all she could do to stop herself crawling between his knees and drawing out his cock.

  Ward’s hand at her nape brought her back down to earth. “You dressed up for us.”

  Hazel turned her head, choosing to consider his soft, tickling caress an invitation. Sometimes, she needed a few minutes to fall into her role. It wasn’t like the flip of a switch. But with the surprises of the day and acutely aware of a clock ticking somewhere at the back of her mind, she couldn’t afford to wait.

  Careful to telegraph her movements before she committed to them, Hazel pressed a knee to the couch and twisted around. Ward’s fingertips were on her cheek, her lips. All it took was a gentle parting of the mouth for his index and middle finger to brush her tongue.

  Dressing up was a tease, a visual cue to get her boys paying attention. This was the invitation that spelled out her desire.

  Ward let out a low, dark curse. “Greedy tonight, aren’t we?” He clucked his tongue. “You’d think after all this time, you’d know how to beg properly…”

  “I suppose we’ll have to teach her,” Dylan mused. He sounded less than dismayed by this turn of events.

  Hazel watched him from the corner of her eye—the man who had eased her back into the realm of instructions and props, restraints and harsh words disguised as praise. He joined them on the couch, leather upholstery creaking as he made himself comfortable. Anticipating his touch with baited breath didn’t stop Hazel from gasping when he kissed her bare shoulder.

  “What do you say, Hazel? Do you need a refresher course in etiquette?”

  Heat zinged through her veins, pooling at her very core. What kind of a question is that? “Yes,” Hazel whispered, pitching her voice to match her masters’.

  Duh would have been inappropriate.

  Ward hooked a hand behind her left knee and gingerly extended her leg across his lap. He had to bend to place his empty glass on the coffee table, an opportunity he used to bestow a featherlight kiss upon Hazel’s kneecap.

  She wasn’t Sadie and her skin was not bare of blemish or mark. She had scraped her knees one too many times as a child for there to be no leftover scars. If Ward noticed, he gave nothing away. He touched her reverently, curling his finger around her ankle.

  “I forget, does she like having her feet slapped?” Ward asked conversationally.

  Hazel opened her mouth, but the question wasn’t meant for her.

  “Don’t recall,” Dylan murmured into her ear. “Let’s find out.”

  Ward required no further incentive. He flicked his palm against the dip of her sole without warning or mercy. His hold on her ankle kept Hazel from jerking her leg back as she registered the sudden sting.

  She was slightly proud of herself for not crying out. She was more than slightly annoyed that Ward ran his knuckles into the throbbing arch when he could’ve been striking her again.

  “No,” Hazel bit out.

  Ward stilled his hand. “No?”

  He was going to make her spell it out? Fine. “No, I don’t like it… But that don’t mean you should stop.”

  Behind her, Dylan chuckled warmly. “Oh, you’re goi
ng to regret saying that.”

  Hazel turned to him and swallowed hard.

  Make me.

  Chapter Four

  Ward seemed to read the challenge in her eyes. A moment later, his grip became a tight manacle around her ankle, thumb pressed into the twitching tendon beneath the skin, and he struck her foot again. This time, the sting of the blow raced up her spine like an electric shock.

  “Oh!”

  Effortlessly attuned to the spasmodic flinches Hazel could seldom control when she was with them, Dylan caught her wrists. He twisted gently to bring her arms behind her back. Hazel offered no resistance, even as a third blow fell on the ball of the foot. The ache was dulled by callus and thick skin, registering only as a rush of heat.

  “More?” Ward asked, his gaze boring into her.

  Hazel nodded.

  “So brave,” Dylan cooed. His tone was mellow, lilting even, but when he groped her breast, there was nothing tender in his touch. He dug his fingers into her soft flesh with all the boldness she had come to admire in him.

  Harder, she wanted to beg. Make it hurt.

  Ward dipped his mouth to her knee again, raking teeth into that scarred jut of bone. His breath was hot on her thigh as he moved up another inch. He bit down on the next swat, sucking a bruise into the meat of Hazel’s leg.

  She choked out a shout for that. She’d never mastered silence when it came to such delicious torment.

  “That’s right,” Dylan purred in her ear. “Cry out for us.” He pinched her nipple for added incentive, summoning her attention to that small, nerve-filled nub of flesh before letting go. The pain was always worse in the aftermath.

  Hazel squirmed against him but pressed her lips tightly shut, determined to be contrary. She wanted to be punished. She needed it like air. Using her words would’ve worked, too, if she had the guts to try.

  Ward rewarded her pigheaded resistance with a sharp press of his nails into her calf. “Hold her steady,” he told Dylan, before sinking to his knees.

  Anticipation rose in Hazel. Blood surged to her ears, drowning out Dylan’s dirty dig and dimming the trill of Ward’s laugh. Dylan unceremoniously spread her knees with his, anchoring her in place so that when he parted his thighs, Hazel was also exposed, the babydoll rucking up her thighs to reveal her glistening sex.

  She wriggled a little in Dylan’s lap, but the twist in her shoulders was warning enough. Be a good girl and don’t move. Dylan was hard against her ass. It was enough to know this was having some effect on him, too, for her to stop trying to entice him. She’d never been good at playing the temptress, anyway.

  Not that I make a better virgin ingénue…

  Before Hazel could protest, Ward knotted a hand in the lacy negligee and roughly pushed it up. The fabric creaked, seams threatening to give way. Hazel’s rational mind hadn’t checked out completely and she felt a pang of regret for the money she’d spent on her outfit. Too late now.

  Ward put a swift end to her racing thoughts with his mouth on her cunt.

  He went down on her the same way he fucked—rough, tolerating no half-measures, but no less skillfully for all the inherent frenzy. As he parted her folds with his tongue, Ward settled both hands at her hips, kneading into flesh still bruised from his latest paddling.

  Hazel pulsed with pleasure, rutting against his mouth as best she could. Independent of thought, her pussy clenched, battered by his fervent licks. Her muscles quivered as he tasted her like the fine whiskey he’d been sampling earlier. It was almost too good, almost enough to push her over the edge. But Ward was clever, too, and he avoided her clit with wicked intent, leaving her whimpering when he pulled back.

  “Doesn’t take much to get you going, does it?” he rasped, wiping his lips with the back of a hand. “Greedy bitch.”

  The shrill ringing of the doorbell cut off any answer Hazel might have thought to give.

  “Ah,” Dylan chuckled, “that would be dinner.”

  Ward sat back, rising from the floor to settle on the edge of the coffee table. “We should let her answer—like this.”

  Hazel met his gaze with a challenge of her own. Order me.

  “Show her off like the wanton little slut she is?” Dylan mused, pinching one of her nipples.

  “Would be a sacrilege, keeping her to ourselves…”

  As if to underscore his point, the delivery man leaned on the doorbell again. Hazel still held Ward’s gaze, heart rattling in the cage of her ribs.

  Dylan released her hands. “Stand up.”

  It took a little effort, her legs like rubber, but she did it. She pulled herself upright, keenly aware of the slick running down her inner thighs. Her babydoll was askew, one strap hanging slightly lower than the other. She adjusted it primly, sure that her face was beet red, certain that Ward and Dylan expected her to chicken out.

  “My wallet’s on the side table,” Ward said.

  Hazel registered the observation for what it really was—a command. Orders had always sparked a flurry of nerves inside her in a way that wasn’t entirely virtuous. Nothing to do with fear, she thrilled when faced with real authority. Real power. Somewhere along the line, she had come to regard Dylan and Ward as worthy of her submission.

  She didn’t question the ease with which she went to her knees for them, much less opened Ward’s wallet and pried out a couple of twenties. The doorbell rang again. It didn’t fill her with dread. It didn’t make her hesitate.

  She grasped the massive handle.

  Dylan stopped her short. “Let me,” he said and took the bills from her lax hand. “Hi. Yep, that’s us. How much do I owe you?” Dylan was all charm and sophistication, chatting with the delivery guy as though he hadn’t been tormenting Hazel just a few seconds earlier.

  Between the angle of his body and the giant metal door, Hazel was safely hidden from view. She dug her toes into the floor, stomach pulling somersaults against her diaphragm. She’d never been more embarrassed. Where had she gone wrong?

  “I would’ve taken care of it,” she protested, once Dylan had sent the delivery man on his way.

  “I know.”

  Far from pacified, Hazel trudged back to the couch. She didn’t mind her orgasms being thwarted—that was one small part of the games they played—but being treated as though she was weak rankled.

  “Hey.” Ward tried to catch her gaze, failed, and curled a hand around her knee, over the reddened mark he’d etched onto her skin. “You okay?”

  “Just hungry, that’s all.”

  “You’re in luck,” Dylan replied cheerily. He brought plates to the coffee table, having long ago confessed to being a neat freak. Soy sauce stains on the white rugs could turn him from a reasonable human being to a berserker.

  His weapon of choice was more often soap than remonstration, but Hazel had taken note. She wanted to keep the peace. It was why she kept her mouth shut and let frustration ebb back as he laid out sashimi and California rolls, wasabi and sliced ginger.

  “And for you,” he added, freeing one last container from the white plastic bag.

  Hazel’s heart liquefied at the sight. “Tempura?”

  Dylan nodded, something vaguely shy in his smile. “I know you like it.”

  She could have kissed him.

  “The way to a woman’s heart,” Ward muttered under his breath, already tucking in. But he was grinning, too. A minute ago, he’d been playing along the tightrope cord of Hazel’s self-control, winding her taut like a bowstring and seemingly feeling no shame for the discomfort he wrought. He was a different man now—carefree, glib, ravenous.

  Hazel watched Dylan fill his plate, then the subsequent squabble over wasabi, and wondered if this was how normal relationships worked. Rules and protocols had washed away in a heartbeat.

  Dylan held out a plate laden with fried shrimp and slices of fresh salmon. Hazel took it, their fingers touching in the exchange. He smiled absentmindedly.

  This was normal enough for her. To hell with the way things sh
ould be.

  * * * *

  “Did you think we’d leave you hanging?” Dylan wondered, holding up the bathroom doorjamb with a shoulder.

  Hazel spun around. She’d stripped off the negligee, let down her hair—even made a valiant attempt at combing out the knots. The collar was still on, less forgotten than intentionally left around her neck as a reminder. She liked wearing it. She missed it when she slept without it.

  “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” she answered obliquely. I know you have to work.

  “That’s never stopped us before.”

  A couple of wide strides and Dylan was nudging her back into the damp counter, his hips flush against hers. Hazel scrabbled for purchase against the marble edge. Dylan had changed for bed already, navy sleep pants hanging low on his hips. It wouldn’t take much, Hazel mused, to help them along to the floor. She couldn’t help a shiver when he traced the contour of her plump cheek with a finger. She’d been told she was baby-faced so often that she made up for it with eyeliner and lipstick whenever she could—whenever she had the time to doll herself up.

  She wished she hadn’t taken off her face before Dylan came in.

  Then why leave the door open? It wasn’t as easy as claiming ignorance. She knew what she was doing. She always did.

  Dylan leaned in slowly, his nose brushing hers. “Come to bed.”

  “Whose?” Hazel shot back. It seemed like a good joke until Dylan slid a finger through the O-ring that dangled from her collar and she realized that no, jokes were definitely not for her. Not right now.

  He didn’t kiss her before pulling back, but a promise of satisfaction lingered between them. Dylan never let her down.

  Leashed by the collar around her neck, Hazel followed him out of the bathroom on tenterhooks. She couldn’t disguise her surprise when she found the bed empty, no sign of Ward anywhere.

  “It’s just us tonight,” Dylan said, deciphering her expression before Hazel could school her features into a mask of nonchalance. “He fell asleep on the couch. Go ahead,” he added, “you can laugh. He was better about holding his liquor before you came along.”